


Gundel Palacsinta

by ApollonDeuxMille



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, gobblepot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 08:56:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9314507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApollonDeuxMille/pseuds/ApollonDeuxMille
Summary: ‘Hey.’ Jim tames the tail of his scarf with his free hand and dabs it clumsily over Oswald’s cheeks. ‘Hey, we’ve still got fifteen minutes.’Oswald smiles again. ‘It’s just the wind, Jim.’ He looks up into Jim’s winter-whitened face. Even when he smiles his eyes are sorrowful and the lines there are so much deeper now.'I can't believe how much has changed,' he whispers.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is also posted on my Tumblr @delicatelyserved. Gundel palacsinta are Hungarian crêpes :)

He’s standing on the rooftop of a wretched tenement in Little Budapest, frowning with unfocused eyes at a scene farther down the wide avenue. The early morning sun is cold after a night of heavy rain and it lands on the sodden road like it’s water, a glaring white canal between great embankments of sad, bow-walled buildings. The Gotham Smog is now all but extinct, but evidence of its long reign exists as ugly black smudges all over the faces of those sorry, hollow homes.

Little Budapest is far enough away from the glistening peaks of Gotham’s heart that even the tallest structure looks like a salt shaker. He’s thankful the Smog no longer clings to all in sight. As a boy it was impossible to squint into the horizon and catch the brilliant shine of Wayne Tower, once so obscured by the airborne filth. It had proudly loomed above the rest of the city’s impressive gifts of architecture, though is dwarfed today by an ever growing throng of taller, sleeker skyscrapers. That glittering horizon is his home now, and he will never again venture to bring hearth back to Little Budapest, but looking down at the patchwork tarmac of the avenue, the familiar shape of the windows, even the rickety fire escapes, he feels the terrible wistfulness of diminished memories trying to fight their way into his brain.

‘How long have you been here?’

A windswept Jim Gordon strolls over the puddle-ladened rooftop towards him, a white takeout coffee in each hand. His black peacoat flaps madly, his loose scarf threatens to take flight.

Oswald gives a damp smile as he takes his cup, stubbornly looking anywhere save for Jim’s wearied eyes.

‘Hey.’ Jim tames the tail of his scarf with his free hand and dabs it clumsily over Oswald’s cheeks. ‘Hey, we’ve still got fifteen minutes.’

Oswald smiles again. ‘It’s just the wind, Jim.’ He looks up into Jim’s winter-whitened face. Even when he smiles his eyes are sorrowful and the lines there are so much deeper now.

‘I can’t believe how much has changed,’ he whispers, looking back over the rooftops of Little Budapest. A sip of his coffee is too hot for him. ‘I remember great long lines of laundry,’ he says, waving his arm across the scenery, ‘stretching between the buildings. I used to love watching them being reeled in.’ Jim doesn’t look up, he’s only watching Oswald. ‘And the telephone lines - do you remember what it was like before everything got re-lined underground? It was like an enormous black spiderweb all over.’

‘I remember.’

They spend a few moments suspended in a timeless daydream, recalling days far removed from where they stand close together now. The most minuscule shaft of light would be incapable of squeezing between their shoulders. They don’t hold hands, they never have, but Jim nestles his hand in his pocket and Oswald slides his into the ditch of his bent elbow.

‘You know, I only came to Little Budapest maybe three times before I met you.’

‘You missed out.’

Jim sets his coffee on the ledge to check the time on his watch. It’s stunning. It was a preposterously expensive gift.

‘Eleven minutes.’

Oswald shudders, a little annoyed with the now empty coffee cup in his hand. He scrunches it and the plastic lids pops off, instantly snatched up and borne away by the wind. A siren begins to wail and workmen in hi-vis jackets move across the sidewalks. He shudders again.

‘You’re hurting my arm - are you sure you’re okay?’

‘It’s nearly time.’

‘I know.’

‘…It’s nearly time.’

Both coffee cups are discarded at their feet now, Jim has Oswald’s limp arms in his grip, holding tight to the fabric of his coat.

‘This is a fuck ugly coat.’

‘Jim…’

‘No really.’

They each manage to smile, sapped though they are from long years of spiritual penury. Jim rubs warmth into Oswald’s arms. He’s wearing his late father’s herringbone ulster overcoat and, in hideous contrast, one of his late mother’s gaudy twill scarves. The overall effect is very unlovely.

‘You’ll be fine,’ he murmurs in the soft hair by Oswald’s icy, pink ear. ‘You haven’t needed this place for such a long time.’ He looks down at the dark swathe of hair and the hint of white roots growing as Oswald buries his sharp nose into his chest. He whispers into that feathery hair again. ‘You’ll be fine.’

It seems that many hours pass as they lean together, imparting their warmth to one another. Jim rubs his large hands over Oswald’s back before lifting his wrist to check his precious watch again.

‘It’s time.’

They disengage from their embrace to stand arm in arm again and look down the wide, shining avenue at a specific row of empty tenements. Nothing happens, then the final warning siren sings. A minute later and they hear a string of snapping eruptions, sending a plume of birds flying from the gaping, glassless windows. A breath passes by and the demolition proper begins in a galloping beat of explosions. The old buildings slump in an immense shroud of dust, disappeared in mere moments. It took less than ten seconds.

Jim squeezes the shoulders of that ugly coat. Oswald is gasping.

‘My home is gone,’ he wheezes.

‘This isn’t your home, Oswald.’ Jim nods his head at the twinkling spires in the distance. ‘That’s your home over there. With me.’

Oswald is transported twenty years backwards, wiping tears and snot from his face with his sleeve. A few heaving lungfuls and he has composed himself, but his voice is still thick and his hands are still shaking.

‘I want Gundel palacsinta,’ he finally says.

‘Buying or making?’

Oswald blinks, earnestly considering his answer. ‘Buying.’

Jim laughs and digs his hand into his pocket so Oswald can link their arms.

‘Gundel palacsinta it is, Little One.’


End file.
